Page 37 of Only for Him
Once the door is deadbolted and the chain pulled, I kick off my boots, peel out of my jacket, and leave both on the floor. I flick on the kitchen light, the bulb painting everything in forensic yellow, and grab the pair of yellow dishwashing gloves from the cabinet.
Slowly, I unclasp the earring. My fingers don’t ever brush my skin. I’m careful, so fucking careful, as if the slightest mistake means another admission of defeat.
I drop the earring into a Ziploc bag. The apartment is so quiet that the sound of the plastic sealing is as loud as a gunshot.
I stand there, bag in hand, for a long time.
My mind won’t shut up. It replays every detail of the bathroom from his voice, to the way he whispered “little viper” in my ear, to the tender yet possessive kisses he left along my neck.
And the cold certainty that if he wanted me dead, I would be
The way his hand fits over my mouth. How I didn’t even want to scream.
I throw the gloves in the trash, remain seated by the table—the one spot in the room where the shadows never quite reach—and stare at the bagged earring.
I tap the earring through the plastic, just once, and feel the dull sound echoing in the hollow of my chest.
Find me, little viper.
Two can play that game.
I leave the bag on the counter, ready to drop them off with Arata in the morning.
He wants to call me his little viper? Fine.
But he should remember.
Vipers have fangs.
12
GISELLE
Morning in Homicideis a mix of fluorescent glare, stale coffee, and uncomfortable memories of last night with every step.
A reminder of my blue-eyed shadow.
Made doubly so because I’m late to work on account of having just dropped off the earrings with Arata earlier.
“Break up with your boyfriend last night, Cantiano?” One of the guys grins as soon as he sees me. “Haven’t seen any love notes come in yet.”
Before I have a chance to give him a piece of my mind, Russo appears. There’s a “don’t fuck with me” look on his face, and it stops me from throwing a retort the moment he clocks me.
Without another word, he jerks his chin toward the conference room.
I follow and ignore the stares and whispers behind me.
I shouldn’t react like this. I know that. And if I’m being honest, it’s not like the comment is any different from everything else that’s been tossed my way for the last five weeks.
But after last night?
I can still feel the heat of my stalker’s hands pressing me against his body. Still taste his scent invading my lungs and putting down roots that I can’t dig out. And no amount of scrubbing in my shower last night can wash out the sear of his lips nibbling my ear and kissing up my neck in that bathroom stall.
And the thing is… I didn’t want to wash out those memories.
Because I wasn’t satisfied with just kissing.
I wantedmore.
